Favoured Day for Self Destruction
by w.s.caer
Summary: It begins on a Monday.


**Title:** Monday is the Most Favoured Day for Self-Destruction  
**Rating/Warning:** R  
**Word Count:** 1 225  
**Character/Pairing:** Mark/Lexie

**Disclaimer:** All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

**A/N**: Written for abvj's drabbleathon on LJ.

**UPDATE (July 2012): REPOST. Story remains unaltered. **

* * *

It begins on a Monday.

* * *

"Monday is the most favoured day for self-destruction," she blurts out, looking down at her shoes and he has to check (despite being the only two people in the elevator) to conclude that yes, she is indeed speaking to him.

"And?" What he really wants to say is _Why exactly are you talking to me?_ But ever since the heart-to-heart about O'Malley, she's kind of grown on him so he tries to be civilised.

"W-well, it's Monday," she glances up, looking at him like she very much wants to crawl into a hole.

"Right," he squints at her, unsure of where she's going with this.

"Lexipaedia, remember? Just," she sighs, "something I read …"

He makes a noncommittal grunt, because, really, at six in the morning, having gotten only four hours of sleep and functioning on crappy coffee, he does feel a little suicidal. The elevator doors open and he walks out, looking over his shoulder just in time to catch a glimpse of her wide-eyed and looking as lost as ever.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

* * *

"President Kennedy was the world's fastest speaker," she spouts off. They're scrubbing in for a rhinoplasty.

"That so?" he asks, vaguely amused at her tendency to disclose random facts at random times.

"Yes," she answers seriously. "About 350 words a minute."

He leans over her shoulder as he passes, "I'm pretty sure you could match that."

Her lips curve upwards into a shy smile and he winks when her eyes meet his.

The surgery finishes in record time.

* * *

It turns into something fun.

* * *

"Turtles," he challenges when he sees her approaching from the opposite side of the bridge.

There's a pile of charts she's hugging to her chest as she half-runs, half-walks to wherever Yang has her today. "Can breathe through their butts," she replies smoothly, passing him without breaking step.

He looks over his shoulder. "No kidding?"

She grins, full set of teeth showing, "Nope."

* * *

He sets his tray down across from her; he's prepared; he's done his homework. "Hippos' sweat turns red when they're upset," he says triumphantly.

She immediately giggles around her sandwich.

"The average person laughs 13 times a day," he continues nonchalantly.

She coughs, choking a little on her food, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

He lowers his voice and leans in her direction half an inch. "The first known contraceptive was made out of crocodile shit."

"Oh, shut up." She laughs then, loud and so carefree that he feels just a little proud.

He shrugs and bites back a grin. "Just something I read."

* * *

It becomes personal.

* * *

They're in the on-call room, her on the bottom bunk and him on the top. It's a slow night.

"The children of alcoholics are at greater risk of becoming one themselves," she says into the silence. Common fact, he's about to call, doesn't count. "40% of alcoholism is passed through the gene pool and 60% depends on yet to be determined circumstances."

Her words are heavy. He's heard about her father.

He doesn't say anything.

* * *

She's standing next to him in the OR, observing quietly.

"Did you know, Dr. Grey," he starts, "in a study conducted by Victor and Mildred Goertzel, they found 75% of the 400 famous people studied came from troubled conditions?" He doesn't wait for her to answer. "Which means," he makes an incision across the columella, "those 300 kids that grew up with neglect or alcoholic parents and the likes? They beat the odds." He pauses then, looks up, "do you understand what I'm saying, Dr. Grey?"

She looks caught off-guard, eyes wide and skin pale.

"Well?" he prompts.

"Um…uh, ye-yes." The words tumble out of her, sounds rolling and falling over each other.

He gives an assertive nod. "Good."

* * *

It goes up a notch.

* * *

He finds a spot to stand next to her barstool at Joe's.

"The national anthem was written to the tune of a drinking song."

"Don't you ever rest?" He holds up two fingers, signaling his usual, then turns to face her, leaning an arm on the counter.

"I can't turn my brain off," she says on just _this_ side of pretentious, and he has to smirk at the display.

"No," he agrees, giving a small nod. "But, there are ways to distract it."

She plants her chin on her palm, eyebrows climbing upwards. "Like what?"

A predatory smile forms on his face as he inches closer, leaving hardly a breadth of space, hovering over her. He drops his head, his voice charmingly smooth. "There are 4 000 people having sex right now."

She smiles; lower lip grasped between her teeth, cheeks a healthy red, and peers at him from underneath lowered eyelashes.

"Also," he reaches forward, tucks errant hair behind her ear and lingers for a moment too long. "When you blush, your stomach lining turns red." He sips at his scotch, satisfied with himself as she breaks eye contact.

"2 000." Her tone is smug, like she has the upper hand, and only out of curiosity at that does he answer.

"What?"

She looks at him with a mischievous glint. "The average number of times men ejaculate from masturbation in the course of their life."

He sputters on his drink, the liquid burning his throat and lungs, completely thrown at the use of two particular words from her.

She's watching him. Grinning like a minx.

Apparently, Lexie Grey doesn't like being outdone.

* * *

It becomes something more.

* * *

He pulls at her, hands grabbing at hips, lips tugging on hers. The tips of his fingers find skin under her shirt, and dig into her flesh. One of her hands is twisted in his shirt, the other grasping his belt buckle as he feels a leg curve around his; everything functions to keep him close as possible.

The scruff of his beard drags against her skin, his lips working her jaw, her ear, moving down her neck, and she lets out a strained gasp. "Men's beards grow faster when they anticipate sex." She presses her hips into his, rubbing a little at his erection and he has to stop and inhale sharply before resuming his attack on her skin. "1% of women," she breathes when he palms her breasts, "can orgasm solely through breast stimulation."

"Fuck," he pulls back, looking at her incredulously. "It's like some new form of dirty talk."

Her smile is teasing. "Kissing may have originated–" She laughs into his mouth as he presses her further into the wall with a bruising kiss.

"Shut up," he growls.

She does.

* * *

It begins on a Monday.

* * *

"Dr. Sloan," she greets, smiling as she stands next to him on the elevator.

His lips twitch. "Dr. Grey." His fingers skim the back of her hand. "Did you know," he starts, "it's Monday today?"

"Yes, I did." Half-turning her head in his direction, she watches him in amusement.

"Hm," he mumbles thoughtfully, keeping up the façade by staring straight ahead. "Most favoured day for self-destruction, you know?"

"Really?" She bites the inside of her cheek as the back of his hand presses against hers lightly. He looks at her then, eyes narrowing playfully and a smile tugging on his lips, pinky wrapping securely around hers.

"Really."

Fin.


End file.
